


A pain ever so yours

by RobbieTurner



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (not explicit) - Freeform, Alpha Sam Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Omega Bucky Barnes, Past Rape/Non-con, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobbieTurner/pseuds/RobbieTurner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky had his omega nature forgotten along with everything else. When he starts to remember, is Sam that he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A pain ever so yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelleLorage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleLorage/gifts).



> Beta by sweet Hieiandshino.  
> Hope you like it, Lady Lorage <3

Like the first pulling of violin’s strings as a symphony unfolds.  Bucky wakes up from a hazed dream feeling empty and warm and thirsty and something else he can’t name. A dream in summer colours. He doesn’t have many of those.  He goes to the kitchen, threading among his scattered memories and finding nothing similar to what he is feeling now. He fills a glass with water and drinks, and lets the water run, pressing his head against the cool of the sink, almost sighing in relief as the water wets his hair and his head.  It still feels hot; as if his body was nursing all the summers he missed.

 

They keep him locked away under his consent, a metal-armed Rapunzel, hair growing longer every day. It is better than being Sleeping Beauty, he knows. Steve was worried that HYDRA would find him and erase from his mind those last months of relative freedom. He was right to worry, and that’s why Bucky stayed in the safe house. He liked it here, where time was unchangeable and he could grasp the tiny glimpses of his memories, put them together like an impressionist painting. He wondered what flowers he would see once he could step back and admire the whole piece. Probably still a blur, and yet better than countless miles of cold.

They visit him. Steve, of course, the red-haired woman called Natasha – who he recognized vaguely, like a bright colour stain in his mind. A man named Clint once stopped by, all smiles and light talk. A guy called Tony too, who fixed whatever was wrong with his metal arm, fascinated with it, half his phrases referencing things Bucky didn’t know. And there was Sam. Sam, who was beautiful, dark-skinned like earth after rain, and had black, warm eyes.

 

He remembers a single dog, the taste of cigarettes, a clenching of fists. He was in the army and then he was _himself_ an army, and the ice melts slowly. He’s naked, but not cold. And there’s something he _needs,_ something he needs so bad—

He’s sinking in warm water when he wakes up. His skin feels sticky, his bed soiled by sweat. Bucky stays there in the dark, trying to separate the dream from the memories, like Cinderella did with beans and peas before the ball. He has an erection, and things fall into place. _Oh,_ he thinks, maybe that was it. Maybe he’s gone too long without release and the warmth and the dreams are the way his body reminds him that he’s human again. It doesn’t come naturally to him, jerking off. When he was a man and not a pretty Winter Doll, he probably did it _right_ , the way Steve tried to teach him – blushing and smiling, not once touching him and telling Bucky that when they were kids he did the same for Steve. Now he flips his body on the bed and grabs a pillow. Bucky puts the pillow under him, between his legs, and humps it, moaning softly, looking for something in his brain that will make the orgasm come faster – Natasha’s hair, Natasha’s hair and her smile – he groans in frustration. This usually works for him, but not tonight… _Sam,_ he thinks, and, _oh,_ he’s filled with arousal like fire made liquid, Sam’s hands all over his body, his lips against his, and the taking, the _taking,_ Sam’s smell branding him, the way he would cure Bucky of his fever—

He comes hard. He’s moaning softly still, and doesn’t notice the fluid that drips down his thighs – fluid that he’ll later mistake for semen.

 

They were eating apples that day, and the air felt electric. He was impatient – he remembers that. The secret on the tip of his tongue, curling against his throat, something shameful. Steve would understand, Bucky kept telling himself. Hell, Steve was probably like him.

“Promise you won’t laugh,” he had said.

They are eating apples today, but trying not to. _It’s for the pie,_ they kept telling themselves and giggling. Sam has spent the whole afternoon tutoring Bucky in the making of an apple pie. When, finally, he puts the casserole in the oven, he thinks the pie doesn’t look half-bad, not for a first timer.

“Steve is saving the world, probably.” Sam tells him, as they sit down. “Asked me to check on you.”

“I’m fine. You didn’t have to.” Bucky likes the visits, but he hates feeling like a nuisance, an orphan child a village is trying to raise.

“It’s not a duty.” Sam answers, with a smile. “I like spending time with you.” He reaches to Bucky, and lightly touches his hair. “It’s getting long.”

“You don’t like it?” Bucky asks, a little breathlessly. A childish fear: maybe if Sam looks at him for too long he will guess what he did while picturing him. Maybe he’ll smell it in his hands, even after all these days—

“I love it.” Sam voices, and he sounds so honest, so certain.  

“I will keep it, then.”

He knows he’s blushing, but he doesn’t let that stop him. 

“Sam,” he starts. The Falcon looks at him attentively. “I’ve been feeling really weird lately.”

 

 

There was once a little broken boy with lungs made of ashes and hair the colour of gold. The sky was blue that day. Steve was drawing, and looked up when Bucky talked to him.

_“Promise you won’t laugh”._

And Steve didn’t. He didn’t laugh when Bucky told him about the way his body echoed the same signs of other omegas, the same needs, and the same veiled shame.  He would laugh about anything, but not about the things that truly bothered Bucky.

“It’s my turn then,” Steve said, a little red on the cheeks. “Bucky, I think I am…”

 

 

“…An omega.” Bucky repeated, the word falling into place, in the hollow catalogue of his memories. Sam looks a little uncomfortable.  “I guess they made me forgot that, too.”

“You were beta-scented when we got to you. But then Steve told me… They must have drugged you. We wanted it to wear off before telling you.”

He paused for a moment. Bucky felt numb. How could they’ve made him forget something so fundamental about himself? But then again, weapons don’t have genders. He looked at Sam. At his large hands, and kind eyes, at his whole frame, by which he longed so much to be embraced.  It was logical why, now.

“You’re an Alpha, aren’t you?”

Bucky asked.  Sam nodded.  The next one took more courage, and more time. The words coming back to him, the terms, like spoon, fork, knife.  Never forgotten, just partially ridden of their meaning.

“Are you… mated?”

Sam smiled. “No. Wouldn’t be a very good Alpha if I was, wondering around with Captain America, leaving my omega all alone.”

 _Yes, you would,_ Bucky thought. _You would be the best Alpha._

“How do I smell now?”

Sam seemed surprised by the last question and his smile now wasn’t entirely happy:

“You smell wonderful. You always do.”

“Then…” He put, carefully, his hand – the one made of flesh – over Sam’s, the blush spreading across his face.  Sam let out a long sigh and his fingers traced Bucky’s neck. Their faces are so close now. Is he intoxicating? He wanted to be. Sam was. “Have you ever… ever wanted…?”

“You?” He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

Bucky lets out a whimper, and their lips almost touch.

“I can’t.” Sam says finally, pulling back. The spell of the moment shattered like glass. “There’s a lot you don’t remember yet.” He gets up before Bucky can say a word.

“And when you do… it’s not me you gonna want.” They share a moment of piercing silence. He’s at the door seconds later and Bucky is still trying to process his words.

“Don’t forget to turn off the oven.” Sam tells him, before leaving. “Don’t let the pie burn.”

 

He tastes old songs in his mouth, broken verses he can’t sing. As his heat grows near, he has flashes of unholy nights beneath the stars. Not many omegas in uniform. He was a sensation in his unit. War and sex tied together; his legs spread for another soldier.

(Is that why Sam doesn’t want him? Can he smell the slut in him?)

Similar things happened during his long stay at HYDRA’s hands, and among the Russians before. These memories he wishes he could erase entirely.

 

He met Sam when he was drifting between being prey and predator, a wild thing living in alleys and under bridges and empty houses, untamed like a street cat. These precious memories: the rain soaking them both, and Sam coming to him with open arms and palms turned upwards, as if convincing a wounded animal to come closer; there’s no danger here. His voice firm and his accent sweet.

  _Oh,_ he had thought. _I remember you. The man with wings made of metal. I pulled one off. I defeated you once. I threw you to your death._

Sam smiled to him. “I’m not gonna force you to do anything. Just, can we go to same place less… wet?”

It took a while, but Bucky smiled back.

 

Before the safe house and before Steve, Bucky slept in Sam’s house and ate his food – tiny pieces, his stomach still getting used to real food. Those two days were mostly filled with silence. They really began talking when Bucky went to the safe house. Sam would spend whole afternoons telling him stories – Bucky picked up facts and collected them like feathers. Sam had a sister. Sam took his coffee black with a lot of sugar. He hated The Beatles, but loved Usher and Lauryn Hill. His father had passed, his mother was alive still. He had had two girlfriends and one boyfriend and thought about being a professional cook or a fire-fighter before joining the army. He believed in God, but mostly in himself.

And, if months had passed before Bucky realized he had fallen in love, it was only because he had forgotten how that felt.

 

_Promise you won’t laugh._

Steve’s drawings flapping against the wind.

He felt pity, pride, and a handful of anger at the randomness of life.

“An Alpha?” Steve nodded, and looked ahead again. “Are you sure?” Bucky asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve said, not annoyed. Like he expected that reaction. He probably had had it himself when he had found out. “I’m not exactly… the stereotype.”

They laughed now that it was allowed. Now that Steve had laughed first. Because Bucky would make fun of everything but the things that truly bothered Steve.

 “No,” Bucky said, and put his arm around Steve’s bony shoulders. “You are better than ‘em.”

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night; his body is made of flames. But, in the feverish state of his mind, he has never been more lucid.

Bucky takes the phone and dials the emergency number.

 

Sam arrives twenty minutes later, panting.

“Bucky! My God, are you alright? Did something ha—”

Sam stops, looking at him, inhaling. And then he takes two steps back.

“You’rein heat.”

“Yes.”

And it’s somewhat hard to drag the words through the haze of Sam’s smell. He wished he could answer with kisses what Sam wants in phrases.

“Bucky... You need to know that Steve—”

“I remember.” Bucky says, interrupting him, and walking in his direction. “He’s an Alpha.”

Sam doesn’t move towards him but doesn’t take any steps back either. He breathes slowly, as if the less his lungs are filled with air tainted by Bucky’s heat, the easier he can think.

Bucky looks at Sam, the prince whose kiss can cure him of one thousand poisoned apples.

“But he wasn’t, and isn’t, _my_ Alpha.”

Sam blinks.

“But I thought—”

“I know.”

“He never—”

“No.”

At least Sam seems to be somewhat relieved. But not enough. Bucky goes on:

“Look, I don’t remember details. I just _know_ that I was never Steve’s lover. And I don’t want to be.”

Sam lets the moment linger, like a candy in his mouth. He is finally smiling. That charming, irresistible smile of his.

“And what do you want, Bucky?”

He wants to say: _you know damn well what I want,_ but he _did_ wake up Sam in the middle of the night, so he deserves the whole phrase.

“I want you, Sam.”

And it feels good to say it, so he says again, closer to him this time, almost against his lips.

“ _I want you, Sam.”_

Sam plays with a lock of his hair, tucking it behind Bucky’s ear so he can see his face.

“You didn’t forget how to tease.”

Sam touches his skin as if he can tame fire with his bare hands. Bucky arches his neck, presenting the place where a bite should – will – be, letting Sam be the one breathless for a moment. His face cradled delicately, unhurriedly, as if the urgency couldn’t be tasted in the air. Bucky closes his eyes, Sam keeps his open, and they kiss softly until the need sets in. The kiss spreads to their tongues and to their arms and Sam tugs Bucky’s hair – getting longer every day because Sam _likes_ it longer – and Bucky groans.

Bucky’s metal arm is too heavy for Sam to carry him bridal style to the bedroom – he has this romantic bone in him – so they kiss and stumble on the way to the bed, barely able to keep their hands off each other. Bucky eyelashes flutter when he falls on the bed, spreading his legs like an offering, and he lets out a moan just by _looking_ at Sam, who undresses fast, urgently. Sam is beautiful, the fever is sweet, and he has a thousand winters melting inside him. He whines and pulls Sam to him, ripping the shirt of his shoulders. And suddenly it is clear, as his asshole clenches and unclenches, and the wetness is so that it taints the sheets, that he can’t _live_ another second without Sam’s knot inside him.

Sam groans, and kisses the words on Bucky’s lips “Sam, I need you. Please. I want your knot.”

The sound Sam makes is primal and beautiful and goes straight to Bucky’s hole, which leaks even more profusely. For a moment, Bucky feels selfish enough to want the bite that would join them perpetually, to claim and be claimed by someone like Sam. He smiles, despite himself. He wants too much, and Sam is more than what he deserves. One day, perhaps.

Sam kisses him slowly, a finger teasing Bucky’s hole.

“Are you sure?”

Bucky kisses Sam’s jaw and cheeks and loves him silently for asking.

“Yes. Please.”

The first two fingers slide in easily; he’s so wet. Bucky arches his back and Sam bites and kisses his nipples. He wants to give it to Sam in so many ways. Ass raised up in the air; on his side; he wants to suck Sam’s cock before and after; he wants to eat out his ass too, he _wants_ — he whines:

“Now, Sam, I need it _now._ ”

Sam smiles, and kisses his ear before saying:

“Bossy.”

He knows he won’t get pregnant – his body’s been asleep for too long to be fully functional in less than a year. A tiny, minimal part of him wonders what it would be like to carry Sam’s child inside him, but he loses the line of thought when Sam finally grabs his thighs and fucks into him. Bucky cries out, his back arching. Sam moans and Bucky locks his legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, there, where he’ll feel him for days. Bucky moans his pleasure in English and in Russian, a litany of _yes_ and _da,_ and comes with Sam’s lips against his _._ Sam kisses him as if he can’t do anything but. They fuck and they rut and then Sam’s knot swells inside Bucky and it feels like the culmination of symphony that started days ago.

They stay locked like that for twenty minutes, exchanging lazy kisses, and Bucky moans every time Sam comes inside him. Later, they fall asleep in each other’s arms and Bucky’s dreams are dreams of springs.

 

Finite

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first Omegaverse fic ever. Hope I didn't suck at it.


End file.
